If I were a man, I wouldn’t lie. I might let little ones slip here and there, but not the big ones. The big lies change everything; they cause irreparable damage. I’d know that.

As a man, I would take responsibility for my actions, even if, along the way, I had become someone who mocked those I claimed to love, crushed friends, and hurt hearts. I would face it.

It’s never too late, or so people say, and I would choose to believe them. I would take a hard look at myself. It would be difficult and humbling, but I would do it before regret grew so heavy on my chest that it pulled me under.

I would free the little boy filled with energy and a careless tongue. I would take the teenager for a drive, windows down and music blaring, to finally toss all the overstuffed baggage.

Then, on a slow exhale, I would close my eyes beneath a sky full of endless stars and stop. I would stop blaming everyone and everything and tell myself the truth because there aren’t enough lies to rewrite history, and men own their mess, even if the stench is nearly unbearable.

If I were a guy with a sharp mind and an even sharper wit, I would clean things up, let go, and leave the shadows behind—if only to avoid the history of so many men before me.

Eventually, the title of “man” would lose its grip, and leave me as a person, a dimensioned human being with empathy and thoughts regardless of roles and constructs.

If I were a man, I’d free myself to explore the sides of me smothered by generations of ego and avarice, and the world would rest a bit easier in my care.

That’s all from the laundry room. Man in the Moon.

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